Everything Will Be Okay
by AllisonWonderland421
Summary: Trigger warnings for mentions of sexual assault and a suicide attempt. Sherlock has been acting strange, and not "Sherlock" strange. Can John help him before it's too late? Johnlock if you squint. Cross-posted onto Ao3.


_**Trigger warnings for mentions of sexual assault and a suicide attempt! Please read with caution 3**_

Sherlock was acting strange.

John could see it in the way that he stared off into space, the way he would "forget" to eat for days on end. The way he'd lock himself away in his room for hours and the way he'd flinch under someone's touch. Anyone else would assume this behaviour was just "Sherlock being Sherlock", but John could see it.

John stared pensively at the cup of tea that rested on the table in front of him. Although he was perfectly capable of brewing his own, Mrs. Hudson had this way of making it just right. Not too much sugar, not too much cream.

"So." Mrs. Hudson settled herself across the table from him, accompanied by her own cup. John sighed deeply. He knew that Mrs. Hudson had realized by now that he only came for tea when he was distraught.

"Well, you're here for a reason." She stated simply, taking a sip from her cup.

"Yeah."

Mrs. Hudson said nothing, waiting for John to get whatever he needed to say off of his chest.

"It's about Sherlock." Mr. Hudson nodded.

"I guessed that. What's on about him?"

"He's acting odd. And not Sherlock odd." John explained. Mrs. Hudson set her cup down.

"Maybe you ought to speak to him about it."

"You know Sherlock, there's no talking to him."

The two sat there, sipping their tea and letting the silence speak for itself. Sherlock was a complicated individual. He wasn't someone that you could coax the truth out of with a few shots of whiskey, nor could you comfort him into revealing his feelings. Sherlock Holmes was a man who wanted the world to think he was a hardwired machine, incapable of love or any other emotion. And no amount of booze or sappiness would get him to crack.

As John was nearing the bottom of his mug, his phone began to buzz in his pocket. He looked to Mrs, Hudson as if he were asking her permission to answer.

"You're in your forties John, you can answer the phone without being excused." She chuckled. John tried to laugh back, but he found his heart leaping into his throat when he read the caller ID.

Sherlock rarely called him.

"Hello?" He spoke into the receiver as he shut Mrs. Hudson's door behind him, making the trek up the stairs into 221B. "Sherlock, you there?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?" Sherlock didn't sound good. His voice was dreary, sounding as if he hadn't slept in days. That or he'd been crying. John was hoping to God that it was neither.

"It doesn't matter." John tensed as his companion spoke.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter? You're a bloody mess, Sherlock." John paused. "Actually, stay put. I'll come get you."

"That won't be necessary." Sherlock spoke monotonously.

"Just tell me where."

John heard a sigh from the other line. "The end of the Hawthorne walking trail."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

John had rehearsed the conversation in his mind for the entire cab ride to the trail. He would tell Sherlock that they needed to talk, and then Sherlock would have some witty comeback prepared about how he didn't do feelings, and then John would look into his blue-green-gold eyes and he'd lose it. Not because he was angry but because he _cared,_ and God forbid someone care about Sherlock Holmes.

John passed the cabbie the bill wordlessly, intending to reach the end of the trail as quickly as possible. It had already gotten dark out in the time that it took him to reach the trail. He clearly wasn't dressed for an impromptu hike; dress shoes, khaki trousers and a wool sweater. But this was Sherlock, and he'd be damned if something happened to his best friend just because he spent too much time changing clothes.

The Hawthorne trail was practically deserted, save for a few stragglers trying to get in a late night run. The walk gave him some time to think. What was Sherlock even doing up here? He wasn't a lover of hiking, and he certainly didn't enjoy the outdoors. Sherlock and fresh air were like night and day.

As John reached the end of the trail he could make out but one figure overlooking the scenery, a skinny man in a trenchcoat. The trail ended on a ledge, with a built in balcony to take in the view.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, trying not to sound out of breath. "What're you doing up here?"

"Contemplating." The detective replied simply.

"Contemplating what?"

Sherlock turned to face him. "In all honesty John, I'm contemplating whether or not to jump."

John wanted to scream. Or run over and grab Sherlock to shake some sense into his skull.

The Soldier drew a deep breath.

"Sherlock, I need you to come down from there." He spoke shakily. Sherlock turned to face him, and John could see the heavy bags under the detective's eyes and how bloodshot his scleras were. To put it simply, he looked like shit.

"Why, John?" John could've sworn he heard a tremor in his companion's voice. "How does my existence benefit you? Or anyone, for that matter?"

The fact that Sherlock was doubting the value of his own existence made John's blood boil. How could he not realize how much he meant to him? To Molly? Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? John was sure that even Donovan cared for him, deep down.

"Because you're my _friend,_ Sherlock." John took a step closer. "And I care about you. And I'm worried."

"I'm hardly anything to worry about."

"Do you realize what you'd be doing to Mrs. Hudson?" John asked. "To Mycroft? What about Molly? What about _me?_ " John raised his voice without meaning to. "We all thought you were dead once before. Don't put us through the real deal."

Sherlock glanced over the edge, and then back toward John. Like he was trying to choose a path.

"You don't want to die, Sherlock. I know you don't." John took another step. If he were to reach out now, he could grab Sherlock's sleeve. "You just want it to stop. I may not be a therapist, but I've been to enough to know that I'm practically qualified for the job. You can _talk_ to me about this."

The two stood there for a few moments, each waiting for the other to say something. Sherlock was the one who broke the silence.

"Something happened."

John couldn't believe his ears. Was Sherlock Holmes, the king of emotionlessness, really opening up to him?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sherlock drew a shaky breath. "You have to understand John, I fought back. I tried to get him off." Sherlock paused for a moment. "I told him no."

John felt his knees buckle. A sudden ringing filled his ears and his heart ached and dear _God_ this wasn't happening. Nobody would hurt Sherlock that way because Sherlock was _untouchable._

Wasn't he?

"Sorry. I figured you'd be upset with me." Sherlock returned to overlooking the scenery. "If you want to leave, I understand."

"What? Sherlock, no." The Soldier shook his head. "That's not your fault."

"I could've done something."

"You can't dwell on what you did or didn't do. It wasn't your fault. None of it."

Another few moments of silence. John detested it. He couldn't begin to fathom what was happening in Sherlock's mind, whether it was calm and placid or if it was replaying whatever happened to him.

"Do you, uh…" John piped up. "Do you know who it was?"

"It was on a case last month. When we got separated." Sherlock explained casually, as if they were discussing something as normal as sports or television. "We were there for a few hours, and… I guess the guard got bored."

John cursed at himself. If only he hadn't given himself and Sherlock away, then maybe…

No. This is exactly what Sherlock was doing and John needed to snap him out of it.

"You don't have to do this. We can help you." John took another step forward. He could tackle Sherlock to the ground from this distance, but he prayed that it wouldn't come to that.

"You can't get the memories out of my head, John."

"You're right, we can't. But we can help you deal." John extended a hand. "Just give us a chance."

Sherlock merely walked past John, which the soldier almost laughed at. Ten minutes of emotional vulnerability proved to be too much for the famous detective. Instead he started down the trail without John, calling behind him for John to call a cab. Just like he would any other time. Any normal time.

Even though he knew it would take a while, John had a feeling that everything would be okay.

 _ **AN:**_ _So this is my first Sherlock fic, sorry if the characters were a bit OOC! I'm considering making it into two parts but I think for now I'll keep it as a oneshot. I hope you enjoyed!_


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